


Grafted

by drabbydee (orphan_account)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blind Soldier: 76, M/M, Violence, old soldier feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7501299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/drabbydee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Morrison’s glory days are far behind him. The world doesn’t know he’s alive and he aims to keep it that way. But it’s never easy to leave your life behind. Slow burn reaper76 with blind76.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a relief to get off the battlefield, though Jack’s loathed to admit it. He’s got a decent team at his back, but he’s old enough to know he’s going to retire soon. One way or another.

He releases the visor and his vision immediately blurs to near darkness. The sense of strain at the back of his eyes falls away. Kinda like taking out contacts. Except this contact doubles as a targeting system that’s synced with his rifle. Even a blind man can go on soldiering if he’s got the right gear. 

The air feels nice on his face. That’s always the welcome part. A lot of work went into rebuilding it after an explosion gave him the worst shave of his life. Took most of his nose, the front of his jaw, and eight teeth. But he knew a guy. A lot of people in his line of work know people who can suture bodies back together. He traces the small ridge on his skin that starts above his Adam’s apple. The skin feels crisscrossed because of the mesh used to hold his grafts together. Not pretty, but it got the job done. Shame about his tongue, though. Some of his tastebuds never grew back. He still has trouble tasting sweet things. There’s some poetry in that, but he tries not to think about it too hard.

He walks to the small bar fridge and opens it. Cold air wafts over his hand and arm, rapidly cooling the sweat on his skin. He feels around for a beer and grabs one by the neck. He pops the lid on the fridge’s corner, then takes a well deserved drink. It’s getting to be his ritual now. He holds his hand out to catch the edge of the bed, then sits down with his back propped up against the wall. A few years ago, it would worry him. Now he’s got the time and nobody’s here to stop him.

The night goes by much like that. He lays on his creaky bed, drinks his beer until its empty, gets back up to the fridge and gets another one. Rinse and repeat. When he’s too drunk or tired to get up, that’s the cut off point. He can finally drift off to sleep or relax into something like it. Sometimes life’s like that.

Except the quiet’s wrong. Jack drinks the last of his third beer and sets it down on the floor. The absence of noise is something he’s learned to trust. He can hear the minute creak of leather and does a mental check of the room’s layout. It’s harder with a buzz, but he’s worked against worst. Tonight’s not his night.

One of his own wouldn’t come in here without knocking. If it’s not one of his, well…. He didn’t get this far by taking chances.

“You’re just gonna stand there?”

Raspy laughter fills every corner of his room. “Now I know why you wear a mask.”

Reaper.

Jack bolts from his bed towards his pulse rifle. His foot catches on the neck of a bottle and he bangs his knee on the floor.

“Ah ah ah.”

He hears the soft click of a bullet loading into the chamber. In movies, this is the part where the villain presses the gun barrel to the hero’s head. Except Reaper knows his business and stays away. Inside 20 feet, it’s easy to kill a man with his gun holstered. He won’t be fast enough to draw it out. Even with a gun unholstered, it’s stupid to stay in arm’s reach. That’s too bad. Stupidity would make this a whole lot easier.

“Stand up, boy scout.”

Jack stands up.

“Good.” Several bottles clink together. “Drinking alone? Maybe you’re more interesting than I first thought.”

“How do you figure?”

“Bad habits make the man.”

“Is that what this is? Bad habits?”

“Sure.”

Reaper’s voice is right in his ear. Jack freezes when fingers trace the outline of his left shoulder blade. Abruptly the touch changes into a one-handed pat down for any additional weapons. It’s unnecessary. He has none. But he doesn’t need one now. He shifts position slightly to get a feel for Reaper’s body heat. It gives him a rough idea of where Reaper’s standing.

Suddenly arms clamp around his neck in a blood choke. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Jack tastes cardboard, pulse beating in his ears. He immediately crouches forward, one hand on Reaper’s forearm. He rams his elbow back into Reaper’s groin, which elicits a shocked gasp, and drives his palm into Reaper’s face. The choke loosens up and he can twist away from Reaper. He keeps his grip on the man’s arm and throws him to the ground like a bag of potatoes.

It gives him the time to grab his visor. Jack hastily shoves it on his face and feels a moment of disorientation. It’s like he’s put on glasses that are too strong from him. The room slides back into focus.

“Ready to get your ass beat by a blind man?” Jack shifts his weight and raises his arms defensively.

Reaper just makes a disgusted grunt and sinks through the floor. Just like that, the confrontation is over. Jack stares at the carpet as if it’ll give him an answer. His body is buzzing with beer and adrenaline. He’s not ready to give up the fight yet, but Reaper doesn’t appear again. The shot to his groin must’ve killed his mood. Or maybe he just wanted easy pickings. It’s hard to know.

One thing’s clear, though. Reaper saw his face. Maybe he didn’t recognize him from the old posters, maybe he just didn’t brag about it. Didn’t matter. He can’t take a chance. Reaper’s mouth needs to stay closed. Permanently. 

Jack checks the room just to be sure, but he’s alone. So he opens up the fridge and snaps the cap off his fourth beer.


	2. Chapter 2

Some habits never die. When the sun rises, Jack rises with it. It’s part of a routine that’s kept him going when everything else literally blew up in his face. He suits up, grabs his kit, and steps out of his room. His visor outlines the hallway as he scans it up and down. Everything’s quiet so far. He’s often the first one up, but after Reaper’s odd little visit last night, he’s not taking anything for granted.

The hallway leads to a walkway that skirts around the edge of the building. To his left, it’s a dead end with a bunch of rotting crates left to weather the elements. To his right, stairs lead down to the ground floor. Jack makes a left and sits on the crates with his back pressed to the wall and lays the heavy pulse rifle across his lap. The breeze is already picking up.

Been a long time since he stayed at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Has more good memories than bad. They’re positioned strategically on the Rock of Gibraltar, which overlooks the Mediterranean Sea. Lot of strong winds pour through the gap between Spain and Morocco. They spent lots of time rescuing people, meeting heads of state, kissing babies. Back when people remembered to be grateful.

If the winds keep up, the launch will be cancelled again. They’ll have to stay hunkered down with a drone. More fighting, more chances to draw Reaper out and put him down.

He hears a door open. The odd tread can belong to no one other than Winston. He doesn’t turn when the scientist moseys into view with a secret stash of peanut butter in hand.

“Oh!” Winston tries to unobtrusively cross his arms so the jar is hidden under his arm. “Good morning.”

There’s an awkward pause. Jack doesn’t feel the need to break it, but Winston clears his throat and puts his hands on the railing. The treasured jar of peanut butter hangs over the edge in plain sight.

“It was something, wasn’t it?”

Jack exhales heavily. “Yeah.”

“You know, I envy you.”

He sits up a little and examines Winston’s back as if it’ll give him a sign. Winston laughs a little and looks over his shoulder.

“I still get lost here. You seem to know your way around after a few days.”

It’s gentle prodding, but prodding. Everyone’s heard the rumours about him. An old Overwatch agent gone rogue to avenge the cause. If only they knew.

He taps his temple. “Good memory.”

Winston looks at him for a second too long, then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I could definitely use one of those.” He moves towards the stairs, the treasured peanut butter clicking against the ground. “See at you at breakfast.”

“Yeah.”

He has no intention of eating rations with the rest of them. Not with Reaper around. Winston’s pet AI should’ve alerted them to an invader’s presence, but it seems Talon’s most overdressed assassin found a way to beat it. No one else seems to know yet and Jack plans to keep it that way. The catch is that when Reaper doesn’t want to be found, he’s not going to be found. He needs to be flushed out.

But Jack has a plan that’ll kill two birds with one stone.

***

Watchpoint: Gibraltar is largely defunct, but public access is still forbidden. The base is surrounded by a tall perimeter fence with barbed wire and UN personnel still guard it from trespassers. Or they did. He crosses the beachhead, back to the cliffs so his body is hard to pick out from a distance. Two abandoned boats bob in the surf. Their hulls are the sky blue of UN peacekeepers. Nobody has returned for days. He’s already scavenged what he could. Poor bastards. It’s likely that they never saw death coming. There’s no corpses, but that doesn’t surprise him. Bodies would be sloppy and both Reaper and Widowmaker are professionals. The boats are left out in the open for a reason. It’s why he’s careful.

He skirts around the rocks until he hits a cave. It looks like a crevice to the casual eye, but it actually leads deep into the rock face. The opening is narrow and pitch black, but he hasn’t been afraid of that since Zürich. The moment he steps inside, his visor switches to enhanced vision. The world goes from red to grey. The air changes. There’s a lot of echoing of waves slapping on rock. He keeps his pulse rifle at a downward angle, ready to shoot if he has to. But the place is empty. Nothing but the silver outline of his boat and its treasure trove of supplies. Well, the supplies he doesn’t want people asking about.

His old military kit is still compact, light, and efficient. But after the first Overwatch signal came back online, he decided a little extra was due. He walks the cave to make sure it’s clear, then crouches near a patch of moist, disturbed sand. Digging means setting his rifle aside so he puts his back flush against the rock. The sand feels nice and cool. It’s not long before his fingers scrape across rough fabric. He pulls a bag out of the hole and hears the clink of bottles.

“So, that’s how you do it.”

Right on time.

Reaper parts from the wall, a lighter shade of black on black. “A habit like that doesn’t sleep.”

Jack slowly stands up. “What do you want?”

“One of those Mahou’s would be nice.”

He chuffs before he can stop himself. “The balls on you.”

“What?” Reaper’s deep voice grates through the cave. “Don’t boy scouts share?”

“You’re gonna have to kill me for it.”

“Fair enough.”

The cave less than ten feet from wall to wall. Reaper bursts across that distance in less than a heartbeat. One hand goes for the throat, the other for Jack’s dominant hand. Jack blocks both strikes with his forearms so the force directed away from his body. He keeps his arms low and twists inside Reaper’s guard. Doesn’t look like Talon’s biggest and baddest is expecting someone who can match his speed. Jack keeps his fingers straight drives them at Reaper’s right eye. Even with the mask, the impact is enough to hurt. Reaper snarls and instinctively turns his head to protect his wounded side, which exposes the left side of his neck. Jack makes a straight punch into the sweet spot just beneath Reaper’s ear. A good hit can drop a full grown man.

Except his fist drives through air. Silvery tendrils expand all around him like an octopus, then snap shut and draw back. Reaper’s laugh goes so deep it feels like it could shake the cliffs. He reforms just out of arm’s reach and mirror’s Jack’s stance. His body language radiates urgent energy.

Jack curls what’s left of his lip. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” 

“An old dog like you must miss this.” Reaper cocks his head ever so slightly. “Man to man.”

The way he says it makes Jack face flush, but he doesn’t take the bait. He wondered if that finger on his shoulder blade had been his imagination. Guess not. He’s seen lots of fighters use this type of talk to push their opponents off-balance. A lot of tough guys out there shatter when their sexuality is called into question. All their training, focus, and experience go out the window because somebody on the playground called them gay.

Yeah, yeah.” Jack starts edging closer, thumbing the knife that’s concealed against his palm. “Keep up the foreplay, princess.”

It’s like pouring gasoline on a fire. Reaper tenses up, but he’s not mad. He’s excited. Guys like him, the real psychos who weasel their way into the business, they get bored easily. No impulse control. No EQ. No checks on their ego. It’s why they make shitty soldiers.

Knife fights go fast. This isn’t an exception. Jack charges forward with a jab at Reaper’s throat, but he blocks it. Predictably. Now Reaper’s looking at his hands. Jack keeps his momentum to deliver a kick to the groin. Blocked just in time by a shin. The guy’s learning. Just not fast enough.

The block opens up the upper track of Reaper’s leg, which doesn’t have any armour. Jack flicks his wrist and the blade springs out. The rest is all muscle memory. He makes a couple stabs and drags the blade around to give a final thrust into the underside of Reaper’s thigh where the femoral artery sits. Nick that and a man will bleed out in under a minute. The rasp of skin and cloth on the knife travels up his arm. Now he knows he’s got Reaper—

Pain explodes in Jack’s skull. He doesn’t remember falling, but the sand suddenly smacks against his back. His forehead throbs in time with his pulse. Blood pours down his forehead and tickles around the rim of his visor. He sucks in deep breaths and tries pushing himself up off the ground. Reaper’s laughter echoes inside the cave. It sounds like it’s coming from all around him. He’s on his hands and knees, the perfectly wrong position, when Reaper leaps out of the darkness and kicks him right in the stomach.

Air rushes out of Jack’s lungs. He makes a noise that doesn’t sound human and flops onto his side. His knife reflects a cut of sunlight near the wall. His rifle sits upright near the cache of booze. No plan, no matter how good, survives first contact. Gabriel used to say that a lot back in…back…. 

He watches Reaper walk up to him. The knife wounds in his thigh seem to have no effect on him. Jack’s heard the stories, but now they seem more plausible. All the stories. This isn’t a guy he wants catching him alive. So he tries to catch his breath while blood tickles down his temple. His body feels heavy as a block of cement. The guy must’ve been toying with him the whole time.

Jack lifts his head against a weight of dizziness. “Do it, then.”

Reaper towers over him, suddenly silent. His mask has an odd raptor quality to it. He abruptly leans down towards Jack—no, over him. The man picks up a single bottle of beer and stands up with an air of satisfaction.

“This is for last night.” Reaper holds the beer close as he starts to dissipate. “Nice moves, old man.”

Then Jack’s alone. Really alone. The surf roars outside. The cave’s ceiling is covered in silver outlines of stalactites. They look like a bunch of knives ready to fall down on him. And all he can do is lie in the sand and bleed.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s nothing quite as humbling as the walk back after losing a fight. Jack trudges back to their position with aches all over his body. A biotic field took care of the worst of Reaper’s handiwork. It was enough to get him up and walking. He had to find a new place to bury his supplies. A man’s got to have some privacy.

The sun’s up now, but the wind’s gaining strength. The Strait of Gibraltar is full of large white capped waves. Jack climbs the stairs up the cliff and sees D.va keeping watch near the hanger. He groans as she immediately turns and barrels towards him inside the pink, decaled monstrosity that passes for a war machine. She pulls back at least moment and skids within four feet of him.

The little gremlin props her chin on her hands and smiles at him. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’m not in the mood, kid.”

“You call me kid, I call you dad.”

He sighs and shoulders his pulse rifle. “Seen anything?”

“Uh-uh.” D.va yawns. “Nothing.”

Jack takes a moment to digest that. “Had breakfast yet?”

She holds up an empty bag of Doritos. 

He jerks his head towards the hanger doors. “Go on. You’re relieved. Eat real food and catch some sleep.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

It’s a losing battle so he doesn’t bother arguing over it. He waits until D.va saunters off inside before slipping up a series of stairs, hopping over a safety railing, and squatting down on the lab’s rooftop. An old AC unit protects him on one side and the height advantage gives him a clear line of fire. His eyes feel hot and strained already, but it gives him time to mull over what happened. Whatever Reaper is, he’s too dangerous to be handled alone. He’s familiar with Overwatch tactics and can penetrate their defences at will. But he doesn’t seem interested in destroying the drone. He could’ve done that at any time. The theatrics are one thing, but Jack knows a bored soldier when he sees one. Reaper’s waiting for something.

Watchpoint: Gibraltar is a good defensive position, but it requires a lot of people to defend it. It’s got a lot of ins and outs. Lots of flanking positions. It’s really hard to lock down the facility with a handful of people (even using an AI.) The base is simply too big. Talon could just sit pretty out of sight and wait until reinforcements arrive to overwhelm them. Or just starve them out. After Talon’s first failed assault, they don’t seem keen to bloody their nose again. For a guy like Reaper, that must be agonizing.

A shadow passes over the open yard below. At first, Jack thinks it’s a bird. Then the sound hits him. He looks up to see a lone figure silhouetted against the sun. The back of his eyes burn as the visor immediately zooms in on the target, but he doesn’t need a better view to recognize the Raptora Mark VI.

He sighs. “Aw, shit.”

The Raptora hovers in midair for a moment more, then lands beside him. The wash from the jets force him to step back, but he keeps his rifle lowered. No need to start a fight if he doesn’t have to.

The pilot lifts their visor as the engines quiet down. It’s—

“Ana? Ana Amari?”

“No,” the woman says in slightly accented English. “How do you know her?”

Jack dips his head slightly. “I don’t. Just saw her on those posters.”

The woman studies him for a long time. She has the same tattoo as Ana, but it’s on the other side of her face. The Eye of Horus. It affects him in a way he isn’t expecting. He knew answering the recall would raise some ghosts, but he never thought one would stare him in the face.

Then things click. This must be Ana’s daughter. Ana had a kid. He remembers that much. Never had much time to spend with her, though. Not with the Omnic Crisis bringing the world tumbling down. The little girl in Ana’s photograph is now standing in front of him as an adult. A spitting image of her mother. He suddenly feels old and out of place.

“You are Soldier 76.”

It’s not a question so he doesn’t answer.

“Tell me why I should not arrest you.”

“You need my help.”

She gives him a stern once over that says otherwise. “Who is in charge here?”

“Depends on whose side you’re on.”

“I did not come here to play games.”

“Kid, you literally dropped out of the sky. I ain’t rolling out the red carpet just yet.”

Her nostrils flare, but she lowers her rocket launcher. “You may call me Pharah. Not Ana. Not kid. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Helix Security was pulled from this site. Now I see why.” Pharah glances around the base with an experienced eye. “This violates international law.”

Jack shrugs.

She fixes him with a gimlet stare. “Was it true? The allegations? The corruption?”

“Hard to say. Sounded more like a coup d'état than anything else.”

“Was Ana Amari involved?”

“Don’t think so.” He pauses as if he’s thinking about it. “Way I heard it, she was a good soldier. A founding member. Really dedicated to the cause.”

“That she was.” Pharah frowns. “The next time I ask about her, I expect the courtesy of an honest answer.”

“Sure. Let’s see how that works out.”

The muscles in her jaw flex. “I suppose it is futile to ask about your history?”

“I’m just here to kill bad guys.”

“You are a wanted man, Soldier 76. Do not forget that.”

“Call me 76. Everyone else does.” Jack turns when voices bounce around the yard below. Winston and Tracer emerge from the lab and look up at them without a hint of surprise. Athena’s kept them informed about the situation. “I’ll let our fearless leader speak for himself.”

Athena relays their audio. Winston raises his head and shoots Jack a dirty look.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s turning into a pattern. Winston recognizes Pharah as soon as Jack does, but he still grills her on her experiences, what she intends, and what she’s in for. It all happens in the old briefing room. He tried to pull that with Jack. It didn’t go over so well. Dead or not, Jack won’t be talked down to by some egghead. Even if that egghead is a genius gorilla from the moon.

He could listen in if he wanted to. Athena would allow it. Instead, he deactivates his visor and loosens his mask just a little. Some air rushes in and the hot ache drilling into his skull immediately subsides. Pain is the price of sight. Without a prosthesis, the world is just a vague smear. He can’t see his own hand unless it’s up against his face. It doesn’t bother him as much anymore. He’s on borrowed time as is.

Something about the silence is off. Jack doesn’t hear anything, but he pushes his visor back on. The world reemerges in various shades of red. He raises the barrel of his rifle and scans his level and the one below. Nothing moves. No targets. He paces around the AC unit just to make sure, but everything is as it should be. It puts him on edge.

He taps the side of his trigger guard and walks back and forth. He scans until tears prick at his eyes. The Talon agents are out there. He can feel it. If he was still strike commander, which he is not, and if he had a full crew, which he doesn’t, he’d go create a little chaos. Force the Talon to react. As it stands, he can only secure a very small portion of the base. The Talon forces, where ever they are, are free to do God knows what to undefended areas of the base. Areas they’ll have to eventually push through with a delicate, one tonne drone.

Jack scans for movement one last time, then finally lowers his rifle. Inaction doesn’t sit well with him, either. He starts to turn away when his visor picks up a blip. He swings back and raises his rifle in one practiced motion. A slip of pink and black vanishes into the maintenance building across from the hanger. It’s obvious bait. Too obvious. He taps the mic under his ear.

“Athena.”

“Yes, Soldier 76?”

“How many bodies are you picking up out here?”

“Three. Yourself, D.va, and one signature I don’t recognize.”

“Tell Winston.”

“Winston has been informed.”

Jack takes a steeling breath and hops off the half-level. He has to give up high ground, which is what Reaper wants. There’s no cover between the lab and the maintenance buildings so he crosses as quickly as possible. The hairs stand up straight on his arms and neck. But nobody shoots at him. He strafes behind the nearest shed and assess where he is. He could be flanked from two directions. It’s bad. But Overwatch never called him in when things were good.

He slips around the corner and quietly advances towards the maintenance building. Its door yawns open into purest blackness. He pauses and listens, but there isn’t a sound. Not that he really expected any. D.va could be unconscious or dead. If the stories about Reaper are true, and he’s seen enough to believe they are, then she doesn’t have a lot of time.

His visor automatically switches to enhanced vision when he plunges into the building’s interior. He keeps his back to the wall and carefully steps towards the nearest light switch. No juice. Of course. He makes a visual sweep of the interior, which is a large ground floor and a series of metal stairs and walkways above to access larger vehicles. Plenty of hidey holes for someone like Reaper.

The infrared vision picks up faint wisps of body heat on the concrete floor. A body was dragged through here. A warm body. Jack keeps to the wall as long as he can, but eventually he has to move around an old personnel carrier. He checks underneath it and in the crevice between it and the wall. No sign of Reaper. He moves forward, pulse rifle tucked snugly into his shoulder. Silver light flares in his vision. D.va lays on the floor as if she fell asleep there. Her body glows with warmth, but a living body and a recently dead one are nearly indistinguishable to infrared. A chill crushes down on him as he crouches beside her and removes one glove.

“Hey.”

No response.

When he touches her neck, she’s very still. He peels back her jumpsuit collar and presses two fingers against her carotid.

No pulse.

The chilly weight in Jack’s chest pushes down into his stomach. He drops a biotic field and the maintenance building is immediately awash in yellow light. It’s like someone lit a candle in a large dark room. He does another visual sweep before setting his rifle down and taking off his mask. He positions his hands over D.va’s sternum and starts CPR. Her bones feel fragile, but when CPR is done right, it can crack the sternum. His did. 

He goes through the compression cycle. Thirty compressions, two breaths. He feels a twinge of discomfort as he pinches D.va’s nose, but shoves it aside. He tilts her head back and gives two breaths. Her chest rises. Then he starts it all over again.

“C’mon, kid. I don’t have all day.”

A minute goes by. Jack knows because he can do 110 compressions in 60 seconds and he’s on 188. 189. 200. At 220, he hits the second minute mark. He can’t see D.va’s face, but he can feel the smallness of her body underneath his hands. Sweat starts running down his face and make his grafts itch. His shoulders ache deeply.

He wonders, not for the first time, What the fuck is a kid doing out here?

He hits 330. That’s the three minute mark. Three minutes of D.va’s brain deprived of oxygen. He remembers delivering next of kin notifications on behalf of kids just like this. Too many parents outlived their children in the Omnic Crisis. Now he’s not a week back with the scraps of Overwatch and it’s happening again. His muscles burn with fatigue, but he increases his tempo.

Then a small sound. The sound he’s been waiting an eternity to hear. Faint, scratchy breaths. Jack leans over D’va and listens. Her breathing gets stronger, more regular. She starts coughing and sucks in a deep breath. He silently gives a little prayer and reaches for his visor, but D.va’s hand grasps his forearm. Her fingers are light like the feet of a song bird. Her voice is threadbare.

“Dad?”

Jack puts his visor back on. Silver and black lines pop back into focus. D.va stares up at him as he does a quick check of their surroundings, but they’re alone. He finally meets her gaze again.

“What’s your name?”

She blinks slowly. “Hana.”

“Your other name.”

“D.va,” she whispers. “I’m not braindead.”

“Not any more than before, at least.”

That earns him a faint smile. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes before her eyes flutter shut. Jack deactivates the biotic field. Its light vanishes to reveal Reaper standing behind it. A cold jolt of adrenaline runs through Jack’s body. He reaches for his pulse rifle, but Reaper draws faster.

“Let’s not undo your hard work, old man.”

Jack grinds his teeth, but stays quiet. The only sound inside the maintenance building comes from D.va’s soft, whistling breaths. This would be a great time for the others to barge in and save the day, but they don’t. Of course they don’t.

“Not the first time somebody’s died in your arms?”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Reaper lowers his shotgun and flicks something to the floor. It makes a tinny sound as it hits the cement. Jack risks a glance at it. A bottle cap. It must be from the beer Reaper snatched off of him. He looks up, puzzled.

Reaper simply melts away into the blackness. When he speaks, his voice has no discernible direction. It just echoes inside the building. 

“Good luck.”

Jack doesn’t move for seven heartbeats. It’s only now that he hears a faint popping sound. Gunfire? It abruptly stops. After a second’s hesitation, he pockets the bottle cap. He swings his pulse rifle across his back and lifts D.va up. Her breathing is loud enough for him to hear, but she still feels very still. Her arms and legs sway limply as he walks back towards the yard.

When he peers out, he can see the others in the distance. They’re clearly engaged. Or were. He barely has time to blink before a figure blurs towards him.

“76! We thought we’d lost you, we did.” Tracer immediately looks down at D.va. “What happened?”

“Reaper,” Jack replies curtly. “We need to move.” 

They quickly cross the open yard. He keeps looking down at D.va’s face. She’s pale and clammy, but alive. He gets the feeling that Reaper wasn’t really trying to kill either of them in there. Just watching. Assessing, maybe. The bottle cap bothers him. It’s more than a taunt, he’s sure of it. 

It feels like a warning.


	5. Chapter 5

A blueprint of Watchpoint: Gibraltar sits onscreen. Jack leans against the far back wall with his arms crossed. He glances at D.va every few minutes. She lays on the old couch with his jacket draped over her. Her breathing is slow and steady. Everyone else stands in the room and studies the computer screen.

“It’s not ideal,” Winston admits.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

He frowns and looks at the blueprints. “What doesn’t?”

“This situation.” Jack nods his head at D.va. “You’ve got two of the world’s best assassins just sitting around and this is what they do.”

Winston opens his mouth, but Pharah speaks first. “Agreed. Our position is weak and yet they do not press their advantage. Why?”

“They’re waiting for something.” Jack taps his index finger against his arm. “They wouldn’t sit idle unless it was for a good reason.”

Pharah arches her brows. “A trap?”

“Maybe. They’ve had the time to set one up.”

Winston sighs and pushes his glasses up. “If we launch when the weather’s not right, it’s all for nothing. This is neglected equipment we need to perform perfectly. We need it to achieve orbit. That rocket could explode in the stratosphere and announce our presence to the world by raining debris on it. Not exactly how I’d like to proceed.”

“Maybe it’s not the time. You already got one satellite back in orbit.” Jack looks meaningfully at D.va, then back at him. “Call it a day.”

The scientist scowls. “You’re against reforming Overwatch, yet you’re here.”

Pharah’s eyes swivel towards Jack.

“I’m not for or against it,” Jack replies cooly. “But you should think about the cost of what you’re doing.”

Winston’s brows furrow, then he looks at D.va and his expression softens.

After an extended pause, Pharah clears her throat. “How did this Reaper enter without us knowing?”

“He travels in a quasi-corporeal state.” Winton takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “When he attacked last time, I had no warning either. I don’t think Athena can track him.” He puts his glasses back on. “Not yet.”

“Yeah, I saw the tape. But something’s coming our way.” Jack swings his pulse rifle up over his shoulder. “And the longer we sit here with our thumbs up our asses, the more time those jokers have to execute a plan.”

Pharah glances at the screen. “They will be dealt with. Harshly.”

“If we do this, we’re announcing to the world that we’re part of Overwatch again.” Winston looks at her. “It could easily destroy your career.”

“I know,” she says shortly. “I accepted this possibility before I arrived. I do not require coddling.”

He nods, chastened.

Jack pushes himself away from the wall. “You almost got a kid killed today.” He stands in the doorway and stares at both of them. “There’s going to be a lot more of that before you get Overwatch back.”

Both Winston and Pharah meet his eye, but they don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. He walks out of the room with disgust boiling in his gut.

***

By evening, Jack is a beer and a half in and smokes for the first time in months. He keeps the window cracked to avoid setting the alarm off. A cool breeze wafts in. He sits on his bed, pulse rifle laid across his lap. It’s stupid, but he’s got a feeling about tonight. Reaper’s pattern is escalating. The guy’s clearly itching for a fight. Someone like him isn’t given to random acts of mercy. If he’d wanted to, he’d have left D.va as a desiccated husk. He had the time and access. But he didn’t. He used her as a lure. And when he had the perfect set-up for a kill, he left. It made no sense. 

Jack turns the bottle cap over in his hands. The edges are serrated. Another possibility is that it isn’t professional at all. Reaper has a fearsome reputation, but he’s loyal to nothing and no one. He could be amusing himself at the expense of the mission. The Talons would be less cohesive, but the tradeoff is they’re dealing with someone a lot more unpredictable.

“You moved your stash.”

He tenses, but doesn’t otherwise react. “You really thought I’d leave it in the same place?”

“No.”

Jack’s bottle is deftly plucked from his grasp. He nearly gives it all away then and there, but manages to keep himself relaxed on the mattress.

“You can fly and go through walls, but you can’t get your own beer?”

“I can,” Reaper says, “but you buy it and bring it to me.”

There’s a soft plink of an upended bottle. Jack has the sudden urge to put his visor back on and see if the guy is showing his face. If he even has one. But the whole point is appearing harmless. The bottle is pushed back into his hand substantially lighter than it was before. He gives it a shake and hears only a small splash.

“The whole thing? Really?”

Reaper’s voice is suddenly very close. “I’ll make it up to you.”

That’s Jack’s cue. He sets the empty bottle on the nearby dresser to cover his other hand slipping towards his belt. They’re so close he can smell old leather and sweat. It’s odd to think someone who can phase in and out of existence actually has to sweat. But it’s something. The mattress dips near his hip. Heat from another body radiates across his belly. Jack’s heart starts to go double time. He hasn’t faced down somebody like this in—a long time. And never without some form of vision.

He keeps his body slack. “What are you doing?”

The dip in the mattress only goes down further as more weight is applied. Then another dip sinks in between his knees. The box springs creak under the added weight.

“Nothing,” Reaper says, but his voice drops a notch.

Jack fires the taser. It makes a loud clicking sound and the mattress jitters as the current shakes Reaper’s body. Jack disengages it just before Reaper falls on top of him. The weight is heavy and human. He shoves the Talon agent off and pins him to the floor. Then he starts beating the inert body underneath his.

“You almost killed a kid,” he snarls. “You feel like a big man now, huh?” He punctuates every word with a punch. “You gutless son of a bitch.”

The mask makes an audible crack. Then his fist drives full-force into the floor. Pain splinters up his arm simultaneously as a heavy mist passes through him. He inhales instinctively and tastes ozone. Then a solid shape crushes down on top of him and he’s the one pinned to the floor. Reaper gets him in a headlock and starts to squeeze with one arm and rips the taser out of his hand. Jack fights it. He tries to squirm and shrimp out, but the taste of cardboard wells back up. His pulse drums in his ears. No matter how hard he tries, his grip on consciousness starts to slip.

“Easy now,” Reaper murmurs in his ear. “Let it happen.” 

What little of Jack’s vision remains start to speckle black and tunnel inwards. His limbs feel like they’re detached from his body. Then…then nothing. He falls asleep with his eyes open.


	6. Chapter 6

Jack jerks awake. A jolt of adrenaline rushes through his body. He feels sick to his stomach. Out of breath. Sweat gathers on his face. When he tries to wipe it away, a hand tenses against his wrist. It’s only then he realizes Reaper’s still laying on top of him, pinning him to the floor. His first instinct is to struggle, but he quashes it.

“Didn’t think I’d wake up.”

“You almost didn’t, but.…” Reaper’s chin settles into the crook of his neck. “When you get angry, your face does this thing I like.”

“You’re really getting off on this.”

Reaper laughs and rolls his hips. The pressure against Jack’s backside is unmistakeable. A hot electric prickle spreads up his belly and his skin flushes with heat. Keen reminders of how long its been since he got laid. If only the floor would swallow him up.

“You’re a prick.”

“Pot, kettle.”

“I don’t kill kids.”

“She didn’t die,” Reaper says dismissively. “You were there to save the day.” There’s a pause where he presses closer. “You’ve got quite the temper, old man.”

Jack just stares straight ahead, jaw clamped shut.

“It’s not a criticism. I like that, too. The rage of a wronged man.” Reaper pushes the intimacy card by pressing his mask into Jack’s hair. “Not really Overwatch material, are you?”

“I ain’t here to join their little party.”

“No?” Reaper’s voice rumbles like a volcano. “Good.”

“Good?”

Jack’s flipped over so quickly that his neck cramps up. Reaper’s weight presses on top of him, hands over his, digging into the floor. It’s impossible not to be aware of how their hips align. The teasing pressure. Jack swallows what little moisture is left in his mouth. 

“You didn’t tell them about our little encounters,” Reaper answers as if nothing happened. But his breath is warm against Jack’s neck. “You wanted me all to yourself.”

It’s bait and Jack’s so worked up, he nearly takes it. The guy’s pushing his buttons to get a reaction. He’s fishing for something.

“Guess you got me.”

When Reaper laughs, he can feel the vibrations resonate through his chest. It brings out all kinds of feelings he doesn’t want to deal with right now. Suddenly the death grip on his hands disappears. He immediately shoves Reaper back and Reaper’s so surprised, he nearly falls over on his ass. Not quite, though.

Reaper presses his elbow against Jack’s windpipe and, for the first, actually sounds angry. “Stop pretending.”

The elbow lifts and Jack coughs. He rubs his neck and it takes half a minute to catch his breath. “Pretending what?”

He can hear the metal clicks of Reaper’s clawed gloves pressing against the floor. “Like you’re a part of all this.” He leans closer until they’re exchanging breaths. “You don’t care about what they’re doing.”

There’s no room for a reply. Reaper closes the gap and kisses him. It’s so shocking, Jack doesn’t react. It feels like someone just collapsed one of his lungs. Warm mouth, rasping facial hair, the faint taste of beer. Reaper’s mask is off. And it drives home that this is a person. And this person is kissing him. They’re kissing him in a way he hasn’t been kissed since Gabriel. He never thought someone would ever do that again. Or that he’d let them.

Reaper finally lets up, but his mouth starts questing elsewhere. Down Jack’s jaw, his neck, and making a long loop along his clavicle to the other side. The scars don’t seem to bother him. Nothing seems to bother him except the possibility that Jack might—what? See value in his team? Be a part of it? It’s still not clear. And the hickey under ear doesn’t make thinking about it any easier.

Jack opens his mouth, but it takes a minute to speak. “This is all you wanted?”

For once, there’s no response. Reaper just kisses him again and there’s a lot of energy behind it. Jack would like to think this sort of stuff is like riding a bike, but he’s rusty and awkward. He had some nerve damage to his face. Not everything moves the way it should. He’s lost feeling near his lower lip and some finesse along with it. But Reaper seems content to do what he wants. He parts Jack’s lips, gives a flick of tongue, and all Jack can think about is Gabriel. 

Gabriel from years ago, frozen in his mind like a photograph. Jack looked up to him. Everybody did. He had a reputation for being cut-throat, and he was, but he carried every loss with him. People just never saw it and he made sure no one ever did. He had it in his head that nobody would respect him if they knew he gave a shit. Jack tried to show him it wasn’t true, tried to balance things out like a good second should, but he ended up being promoted over Gabriel and Gabriel never forgave him for it.

He’d been a country bumpkin fresh off the farm, prepared to die before he ever revealed his sexuality, and Gabriel just saw through it all. Soldiered with him, slept with him. Then it all just fell apart. And now Gabriel is dead. And the world keeps on spinning like nothing happened.

They eventually make their way back his bed. Reaper’s gloves slide under his shirt, applying just enough pressure to prick his skin. Then the gloves are off and he feels calloused hands mapping dragging over his belly, which is just starting to edge over his belt. The callouses are familiar. The grip of a gunman. He reaches out to return the favour, but Reaper bats his hands away and starts working on Jack’ belt. He lifts his hips to make it easier. His pants and boxers are roughly pulled down to his knees. The air’s cool on his skin.

There’s a creak of leather and the clinking sound of a belt, followed by a zipper, and a spit. The bed dips to either side of Jack’s shoulders as Reaper leans over him. He can feel the subtle wash of body heat.

Jack startles when a finger trails down the seams of his face where his grafts and his uninjured skin meet like continents. The scars themselves are faint and silver, but the crisscrossed skin makes it obvious. Reaper’s touch is surprisingly light and so he loses track of it near his nose. After the explosion, the front of Jack’s face had nearly been cut right off. His jaw and nose swung open like a door. It was only through Angela’s medical expertise that he got his face back. But the impact point just under his left nostril never reclaimed feeling. It’s unnerving to know he’s being touched, but unable to gauge how strongly.

Whatever it is, Reaper seems satisfied. He settles down so his full weight rests on Jack’s body. Their cocks rub together and a flash of heat scrawls under Jack’s skin. He sighs shakily and reaches down to stroke them both, but Reaper bats his hand away again. The bed dips to one side as Reaper’s rough hand grips them both together to pump in time with his thrusts. The bed creaks rhythmically underneath them. 

Pleasure snaps and sparks all the way up Jack’s core. A tingling rush starts up in the base of his spine. His mouth hangs open. Then Reaper’s weight shifts again and two fingers press into the skin behind his balls and up against his prostate. Years of deprivation suddenly crash into Jack. He groans as the electric roll of orgasm finally hits. He grabs Reaper’s hip and thrusts helplessly into his hand. Whatever Reaper might say afterwards, it doesn’t take him long to follow. He exhales a hissing breath like a steam engine, cock throbbing, and Jack feels hot spurts across his belly.

They stay like that for a while. Panting against each other, flushed hot and sweating. Jack closes his eyes out of habit and catches his breath. A deep heaviness starts settling into his body. The lassitude of a good lay. Or in this case, after a long, long dry period. He didn’t last all that long, but neither of them did. So at least there’s that.

Reaper rolls off him and starts dressing. Jack listens to the brush of fabric, clicking, and zipping. He tries to not let it get to him, but it does. The first sex he has with another human being in years and it’s with an amoral killer-for-hire looking to get his rocks off.

He sits up slowly and a pleasant string of aches stretch along his core and thighs. “Where’s my cig?”

“Here, old man.” Reaper’s boot grinds against the floor. “You’ll need another one.”

“Right.”

A fresh cigarette is butted against Jack’s nose. He mouths it and hunches over the predictable click and wash of heat from a lighter. Nicotine rushes into his lungs.

“Thanks.”

Reaper opens the window and a cool breeze flows into the room. “So much for your revenge.” He laughs from everywhere and nowhere until his voice fades away.

Another flush of heat goes through Jack’s body, but this time it has nothing to do with pleasure. It’s all shame.


	7. Chapter 7

At dawn, Jack showers, dresses, and eats. By the time he’s finished, he can hear others stirring down the hall. He puts his visor on and the world reemerges in shades of red. When he steps out, he usually heads towards the outside door. Today he walks further down the hall until he reaches D.va’s room. Hana is scrawled on the door in purple marker. He raises his hand to knock, then hesitates. Last night replays in his head. The muscles in his neck tighten and he turns away for a moment, though there’s no turning away from memory. He finally screws up the courage and knocks.

A sleepy grumble is all he gets in return.

He opens the door and is immediately hit by the smell of stale chips. The kid’s built like a stick and eats double her weight in sugary garbage. He steps over a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew and spots D.va sprawled across her bed. The room was originally meant to hold four members of staff, but two of the mattresses have been pushed together. D.va snores softly, her limbs arranged like a starfish, swamped by a blanket. And on top of her blanket, his jacket. 

She squints up at him. “Mmragh?”

“Relax.” He picks up his jacket and shrugs it on. “Go back to sleep, kid.”

“Mmk.”

Her face is still pale, but not the bloodless white from after Reaper’s attack. He’s seen other survivors and there’s not much left of them. She seems recovering well enough. Maybe in a week or so, she’ll be back in fighting form. He leaves her room as quietly as possible and makes his way down the hallway and outside. It looks like another beautiful day. This time, he doesn’t loiter near the stairs. He goes straight to the briefing room. 

It’s quiet by the time Jack makes his way in. Usually he’s the first one in or a no show, not late. Tracer watches him with unabashed curiosity, but she takes another bite of her bacon sandwich rather than remark on what happened yesterday. Pharah stands near the back of the room, expression locked into a frown, arms crossed. Winston stands at the front pouring over several sheets of paper. He looks up when Jack steps in.

“How’s D.va?”

“She’s out of commission.”

Winston sags. “I see.”

Jack leans against the wall and leans his pulse rifle against his thigh. “No wind today.”

“Yes.” Winston pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “If we’re going to go, we go today.”

Pharah arches one dark eyebrow. “If?”

“We’re going to be exposed without that MEKA.” Jack crosses one ankle over the other, which draws Tracer’s eye.

“I know.” Winston scratches the high crest on his head. “I can do it. I can go.”

Tracer pushes her plate aside. “Love, I don’t mean to cause offence, but—”

“I haven’t been in the field in years. Talon’s first attack reminded me that much.” He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t see a viable alternative.”

“You could quit,” Jack says.

The scientist takes a deep breath and speaks with exaggerated calm. “That is not a viable alternative.”

“I did not come this far only to give ground at the last moment.” Pharah steps forward and for a second, it’s like Ana Amari is back in the room. “Whatever they want with us and this facility, I will deny them until my dying breath.”

Winston raises his hands. “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

Her frown deepens, but she doesn’t say anything more. Jack can see the fissures already forming in their group and wonders, not for the first time, if the rift between himself and Gabriel had been so obvious.

***

The drone is a relatively small, sleek orbital shuttle, but it still takes them nearly an hour to get the damn thing moving along the tracks. They take turns giving the thing a shove while the rest of them fan out ahead. Jack rests the butt of his pulse rifle against his shoulder and moves ahead of the drone. Its platform creaks and groans over the neglected tracks, which creates an eerie soundtrack for their advance through the base. Somewhere up ahead, Reaper and his fellow Talon operatives wait for them. The confirmation of a sniper makes his forehead tingle in anticipation of a bullet.

But it’s quiet. They continue grating noisily along with no challenge. There’s no sign of occupation anywhere. He positions himself against the next corner and presses his mic.

“Anything, Pharah?”

She lands on the half-level above them. “Negative.”

He scans the rooftops. “Tracer.”

“Yes, guv?”

“Scout ahead.”

The pilot blurs ahead and he waits. Still no movement. Jack blinks sweat out of his eyes and slowly moves forward again. Pharah’s shadow passes over him. Her perspective from the air is invaluable, but only if there’s something to be seen. Tracer blazes back to them in a bright blue streak.

“Anything?”

“Nothing,” she answers. “Got a little bendy bit, then it’s straight to the rocket. Easy!”

Winston sighs over the mic. “Don’t jinx us.”

“Sorry.”

Jack feels more and more uneasy as they near the turn in the tracks. The space between buildings narrow and a bridge spans overhead. A natural chokepoint.

“Watch your six,” he says. “If they’re going to ambush us, it’ll be here.”

Something dark shifts in the corner of his vision. Jack looks up and his visor tracks a humanoid figure tucked against one side of the bridge.

“Contact!”

He squeezes the trigger and three hard kicks drive into his collarbone. The heavy pulse rifle blasts through the concrete wall and the body behind it. He sees limbs flail and then fall backwards. Then suddenly the bridge is crowded with armed Talon operatives. He rolls to the side and into a small doorway. Bullets whiz and ting by him. He reloads and counts how many shots ring out. They pause at the same time to reload. Goddamn amateurs. He leans around the corner and aims with aid of his visor, then cuts loose. The rifle batters against his shoulder. It’s hard to hold steady on auto fire, so he shoots small bursts of three or four rounds to maintain accuracy. Pharah lands on the rooftop kitty corner to them to establish the perfect enfilade. She starts firing her rocket launcher and the Talon operatives drop like flies. The bridge starts to crack and shudder. He can hear the squeal of failing rebar from the ground.

“Cease fire, Pharah. You’ll bring that thing down on top of us.”

She doesn’t acknowledge him, but she does back off. Dust creates a grey haze below. Winston visibly steels himself before pushing the platform forward and into the debris. Tracer is lit up by her chronal accelerator. They might as well put a target on her.

But nothing happens. They clear the dust and pass through the bend. The launch platform is directly ahead. Jack immediately pushes forward and starts scanning the area for threats. No movement on the ground, none on the rooftops.

Winston abruptly stops pushing the platform. “Odd.”

It’s what Jack’s been waiting for. “What?”

“Someone moved the Jeep there. See?”

“Anybody here move it?”

There’s a chorus of no’s fed into Jack’s ears. He approaches the vehicle, constantly scanning it, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. Only that it clearly changed position. He can see four spots where the tires had been on the concrete. The tires themselves are flat and off the rim. Whoever moved it had no intention of using it. They simply cleared a path to the rocket….

And its two massive tanks of liquid propellant. A bomb. And they just sidled right up to it.

Jack opens his mouth to shout a warning just as the world flashes white.


	8. Chapter 8

Things slowly filter back in. A sharp needling whine in his ears. The taste of blood, dust, and smoke. Crackling fire. The tinging of cooling metal. A numbing weight across his hips. A vice on his lungs. Wheezing breaths. An all-pervasive heaviness in his body. He opens his eyes and sees only through his right eye. The left side of his visor is broken. He can feel pieces of it embedded in his face. What vision remains to him is ratty and flicks on and off.

A deflated tire hangs off its rim and directly over him. It’s the jeep. It fell straight onto its front fender. A vague smear is reflected back at him, but he can only see a broken arrangement of limbs. The windshield is cracked and blown out on one side, but didn’t shatter. His waist disappears beneath the jeep’s grill. It essentially cut him in half. He tries to wiggle his toes, but he can’t feel if they obey or not. He looks up to see a cratered rim of light overhead. A few clouds skate across the sky. The ground must’ve collapsed underneath him. He looks side to side and sees the jagged edges of an archway. One of the tunnels running underneath the base.

The whine slowly fades away. It takes an act of supreme will to lift his hand up to his mic. His mouth is so dry, he can’t make an audible sound the first two tries.

“Anyone…?” He manages only a broken whisper. “Anyone copy…?”

There’s no reply. He didn’t expect one, but he did his duty. It gives him permission to quit struggling. Something collapses in the world above and he can feel the shudder through the ground.

“Still not dead? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Reaper coalesces out of the darkness. He looks like a disembodied white mask against the damaged tunnel, but his boots make loud crunching sounds as he walks forward. He looks down at Jack, then abruptly pushes the jeep onto its side. It’s precariously balanced already. The vehicle groans and crashes into the side of the hole. Pain scorches up Jack’s torso, but he shivers like he’s freezing. He makes sharp, shaking breaths and wishes he’d die faster.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Jack.”

It’s been so long since anyone’s called him that, it’s disorienting. He looks up at Reaper, whose image blinks in and out of existence. His visor is about to fail. The last thing he’ll see is someone he slept with and who hates him. Again. He lolls his head the other way to stare at the jeep’s rusted underside.

“None of that.” Reaper’s boot nudges his chin so they face each other again. “Don’t spoil this for me.”

“Just…get….”

“Get…?” Reaper bends down on one knee and cocks his head. “Get what? Get help?” His laughter sounds like two rocks grinding together.

“…on with it.”

“You want it quick and painless?” Reaper reaches up and takes off his mask. “Like the farewell you gave me?”

The face is red and grainy in his visor’s ailing vision. Jack sees shadows. Shadows cast by familiar angles. So familiar he drinks a six pack every two days to forget. Gabriel Reyes. The rest of the world falls away for a moment and Jack struggles to lift his hand. His breath whistles. His vision scintillates. He can’t raise his voice above a cracked whisper.

“Alive?”

Then everything blinks out. His visor fails. He reaches out and grasps Gabriel’s jacket as if that will keep them tethered together. Every breath feels like he’s inhaling wet cement, but he can’t help himself. He gasps alive? again. Reaper digs his knee into Jack’s chest and presses down. 

“Just like old times.” Gabriel’s voice is deep and exactly as Jack remembers it. “I always was the better soldier.”

It’s impossible to breathe. Jack’s body burns for air. He claws at Gabriel’s thigh, but to no avail.

“I did warn you.” He presses down harder on Jack’s sternum and his voice shudders with excitement. “I’m glad you didn’t listen, mi cielo.”

Mi ceilo. My sky, my heaven, my world. It’s something Gabriel whispered into every inch of Jack’s skin over their years at Overwatch.

Sounds start to fade away. Jack barely feels his arms fall slack against the ground. The thundering pulse in his ears quiets. Everything begins to soften and drift. Or maybe he’s drifting from everything else. 

Heat explodes overhead. Gabriel’s weight is lifted off Jack’s chest. He inhales as deeply as he can and coughs until the taste of rust fills his mouth. Something heavy slams into the ground on his right side. The impact goes straight through him. Gabriel makes a noise Jack’s only heard once before: a scream of pure rage. He hears the rapid fire of those shotguns. They’re suddenly drowned out by the blast of a fusion cannon. No, two. Heavy calibre. Spent cartridges tink against the ground. One bounces off his arm, still hot. If any rocket fuel is still around, they could easily set off a second explosion.

A gasp of pain.

“That’s for pulling me out of bed,” D.va shouts over the chaos. “Nun jungmal nabbeun nomeya. Ara?”

The low thuk-thuk-thuk of the MEKA’s cannons is deafening in such a confined space. There’s no answering fire. The mechanical whir dies down, followed by two ground-shaking steps.

“Hey. Are you dead?”

Jack’s so tired, he’s tempted not to reply. But the thinly veiled fear in her voice demands a response. He draws breath against the weight building in his chest.

“Get…outta here.” 

“Only if you’re coming with us.”

Us?

It’s the last thing he thinks before slipping into unconsciousness.


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing that comes back to Jack is humming warmth. A deep, deep heaviness everywhere in his body. The very core of his being feels nailed to the earth. He slowly opens his eyes and is met with nothing. Of course. The visor failed.

“Commander.”

It’s been years since anyone has called him that. Commander Morrison. Jack. They’re all trappings from another life. He frowns and tries to place the speaker. His confusion must be on his face, because the speaker continues.

“It would appear I arrived just in time. You’re in a room next to the clinic. I’m afraid the medical facilities are full.”

Jack inhales sharply. It’s the voice that guided him through blindness, grief, rage, and the worst pain he’s experienced in his life.

“Angela.”

“Hello, Jack.”

He tries to sit up, but pain rips through him. He clenches his teeth together and keeps silent, but he never could hide his pain from her. The floor creaks nearby and hands gently touch his chest, then his forehead. She moves away and something clicks. The humming warmth increases and his pain fades away.

“The others?”

“All alive,” she says with a note of reprimand in her voice. “All shocked to see you, it seems.”

Jack closes his eyes. “They know?”

“They know.”

“Glad I was out.”

Angela makes the most unladylike snort. “Winston and Lena are furious, naturally.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You should’ve told them.”

He doesn’t say anything in return. It’s an old argument they’ve been having since she scraped him off the pavement. She wants him to reconnect, hang up his jacket, embrace retirement and civilian life. He considered it in his weaker moments, but it’s impossible now. Not with Gabriel out there.

Shame heats his skin. They’d been steady lovers for years and he hadn’t recognized Gabriel. Not even when that stupid goatee rasped against his face. It should make Jack angry. Anger is useful. But he just feels tired and foolish.

As a younger man, he had been good in combat, naive in life. He had put too much faith in Gabriel and actually believed they could beat the odds. But it only muddied the waters. He spent more time trying to conceal their relationship from a prying UN investigation than doing his job. If it had come out that Gabriel and Jack had been lovers, they both would’ve faced court martial for compromising the chain of command. 

Maybe Overwatch could’ve survived that. He had cut Gabriel too much slack and subsequently lost the respect of those around him. He had been forgiving when he should’ve been stern, exhausted and preoccupied when he should’ve been driven and focused.

“What is it?”

Jack carefully shifts his arm to ease a cramp tightening in his shoulder. “What?”

“You look sad.”

He shakes his head. Not in denial, but he simply can’t talk about it. She sighs and the light click of her boots head away from him. Something creaks open and a breeze immediately cools his skin. He can hear seagulls and the distant surf.

“There, much better.” Her boots click toward him. “The damage to your spinal chord will take some time to heal, but you should be ready by—” 

The door abruptly swings open. “Is he awake? He’s awake!”

“He just opened his eyes.” 

“Hi, Dad.” D.va’s footsteps make a beeline for him. “You didn’t die. GG.”

“Thanks,” he says wryly.

“Dad?” Angela’s voice rises a note.

D.va laughs at her scandalized tone. “He calls me kid so I call him dad. I guess now it’s Mr. Morrison.”

Jack groans. “No.”

“Commander Morrison?”

“No.” His voice is a lot harsher than he intends and he can feel D.va draw back. He clears his throat before adding, “Aren’t you supposed to be resting up?”

“I’m fine,” she replies sullenly. “What happened to your face?”

He opens his mouth slightly, then closes it. Silence hangs between them for a long thirty seconds.

“An explosion,” he says.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Angela’s voice is no-nonsense. “Time to go, young lady.”

“Whatever.”

To Jack’s surprise, he can feel body heat close to his arm. Something is draped across his chest. He can tell by the shape of it that it’s his jacket. D.va’s footsteps abruptly start away from him. The door opens and slams shut. He swallows convulsively and stares up at the ceiling. Though he can’t see anymore, it’s always helped him regain composure.

A chair creaks nearby as Angela sits down. “She reminds me of Fareeha at that age.”

“You weren’t much older.”

Neither of them speaks for a while. Jack shuts his eyes again, though the world remains as dark as it was before, and listens to the hum, the gulls, and the waves. He remembers days like this. Better days. Gabriel surprised him once after a successful mission. On paper, it had been a stop for supplies and medical care. In reality, he and Gabriel spent every night that week together. Hushing each other like teenagers. Giddy with the threat of discovery. Not all memories of Watchpoint: Gibraltar had been bad.

“I saw him,” Jack blurts.

The chair creaks again. “Who?”

He doesn’t answer. It takes Angela a moment to grasp what he’s saying.

“That’s impossible.”

“I saw him,” he says again and his voice sounds like a stranger’s. “It was him. Called himself Reaper.”

“The terrorist?” Angela sounds aghast. “Even at his lowest point, he would never—”

“He would. Now he is.”

“Schafseckel.”

Jack opens his eyes again. “My visor?”

“Winston offered to repair it once he is better—in spite of your deception.”

“Good.” He shifts his weight slightly. “What about the explosion? Can’t imagine that went unnoticed.”

“It didn’t, but Athena pulled a few tricks. We’re safe for now.”

“Don’t let your guard down. Reaper can move through here without being detected. There’s no guarantee he’s gone.”

“Yes, commander.” Angela’s voice has a fondness to it. Her hand finds his and gives it a squeeze. “It’s good to see you again.”

He only nods. His old title is like a knife stroke, but he doesn’t have the energy to argue.


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you ready?” Angela hooks her arm in his.

Jack squares his shoulders. “Yeah.”

She opens the door and steps inside. He lets himself be dragged in and immediately feels that he’s being watched. A sharp intake of breath. The crinkle of a disposable medical gown. He can imagine what they see. A face awkwardly stitched back together. Eyes pale and crisscrossed with corneal scarring.

“Well,” Winston says after a very long silence, “I’ll start working on that visor.”

He can hear the scientist’s odd gait move past him. Angela shifts at his side to make room. The door swings open, then creaks shut.

“He’ll be right soon enough.” Tracer’s voice is ragged. Whether from emotion or injury, it’s not clear. “He just needs a bit of time.”

Jack reaches out and touches the wall. He slips from Angela’s touch and leans against it. He’s never liked having open space at his back. Especially not after the explosion in Zurich. Angela sighs and her boots click away from him. Something rattles, then groans. A swivel chair by the sound of it.

“I require no time,” Pharah says with a fierceness that’s been building for days. “I require an explanation. You lied to me.”

“What’s to explain? I peeked above cover just in time to eat an explosion. When Angela brought me back, Jack Morrison was already dead and buried.”

“That is all you have to say for yourself?”

“That’s all.”

Angela shifts and lets out an exasperated breath, but she doesn’t come to his defence. He’s immensely grateful she doesn’t. The reality is: after Zurich, he was barely alive. His head looked like something out of a horror movie. The pain had been unbearable and unrelenting. He spent every moment of every day exhausted by that pain. It pushed into every thought, every corner of his waking experience, and ground him down. Nothing but morphine took the edge off and by the time Angela had achieved something close to pain management, he was at a dangerously high dosage. But he hadn’t cared. The pain had eased and that was all he could care about.

Then came the surgeries. Then they cut off peels of healthy skin and bone and stuck it onto his face. Reconstructed his jaw and nose, replaced his teeth, tried to repair his eyes. More pain. More morphine. And the deadening, slow-drip realization that his sight would never come back. He spent his days grieving his life of before, how he once looked, his friends and teammates. Gabriel. 

He watched the people who promoted him bring in the Petras Act. The ignoble collapse of Overwatch. His life’s work, thirty years of soldiering and sacrifice, wiped out by a single vote. None of it fits into words. He could talk until his lungs give out, but nobody would understand unless they were there. So he just doesn’t bother.

“I would never do such a thing to those under my command.” Pharah’s voice is granite. “Not ever.”

Once upon a time, Jack thought the same thing. Now he’s old enough to know better.

Tracer fidgets. The fabric of her shirt rasps with each movement. “Will you help us?”

“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?”

“With Overwatch,” she says with forced brightness. “Getting the gang back together.”

He cocks his head. “Why?”

The silence shifts. They’re surprised by his answer.

“The world always needs heroes.” Tracer takes a step closer and he can smell the old leather in her jacket. “Now more than ever.”

Jack barks out a laugh. It’s a cosmic irony to have his own idealism thrown back in his face. He said much the same to the new recruits every year. They always ate up his good old American farm boy optimism. Year after year, the same earnest, impressionable faces. People yearning to believe in something bigger than themselves.

He did try. He expanded non-military sections of Overwatch’s operations. Medical, scientific, environmental. But at the end of the day, most of their innovations had military applications and that’s how they were used. The veneer Jack gave Overwatch was just that. They were, and always would be, a standing army.

“And look where that got us.”

“But commander—”

Every muscle in Jack’s body snaps tight. “Don’t call me that.”

Another silence. There’s a rattle in Angela’s direction. Her boots click towards him.

“Perhaps that’s enough, hmm?”

“You saved Hanah,” Tracer says with infuriating persistence. “Can’t have it both ways, guv.”

He ignores Angela’s hand on his forearm. “I deprived an enemy of a resource.”

Tracer laughs without malice. “You don’t really believe that.”

She sounds far more sure than she has any right to. But Angela’s fingers tighten on his arm and after a tense moment, he lets himself by guided towards the door. The air flow and temperature changes slightly as they step into the hall. When the door closes, they walk towards the far end of the base where he usually sleeps.

Finally, Angela says, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

“About what?”

“Leaving Overwatch in the past.”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Then why’d you come back?”

They reach a stairwell. Angela opens the door and leads them upwards. “Sentiment, I suppose.” Her voice softens a little. “I could never turn away from my friends. No matter what our differences.”

He reaches out for the railing and uses it to guide himself. When they reach the top of the stairs and step through another door, the air changes again. It’s more familiar. He can smell the sea air. A door to the outside is nearby. Angela pauses and her body is angled towards the end of the hall. He remembers a small cutout of the straits is visible from here. It’s a nice part of the base. Quiet, locked in time.

She exhales and all the tension seems to leave her body. “For a while, it was good.”

Jack turns to her, though he sees nothing but a blur. He looks back towards a faint impression of light. Gabriel’s face surfaces in his mind. Not the blurring phantom who appeared out of the tunnel. But a man whose hands overlapped his in the back of an old commandeered Chinook, whose fingers kept his intestines from spilling out onto his lap. The same man who didn’t flinch when Jack buried his head into the crook of his neck in front of the others. Because Jack had been afraid to die and didn’t want the other to see it.

A man who pressed their helmets together when the world started to slip away. Stay with me, mi cielo. Stay with me now.

“Yeah,” he admits, “it was.”


	11. Chapter 11

With UN forces convinced the base’s interior more old, unexploded propellant, they have a day’s grace before clean up crews are scrambled. Jack sits down on the old crates and imagines the scenery laid out beneath him. The night breeze is cool and heavy with moisture. Gulls settle down after the sun sets. He can hear waves rolling in and crashing against the rocks below. It’s a brisk night, but pleasant. He imagines the moon full and glistening over the water. It’s a nice view, all things considered.

The door abruptly swings shut. A heavy crunch of boot on dusty cement. He takes a long drink of beer and stares out over a landscape he can’t see. 

“I had a feeling you wouldn’t let things stand.”

Pharah makes a disgusted noise. “I thought you were dead. My mother….” She pauses and when speaks again, her voice is low with anger. “She believed in Overwatch’s mission and you abandoned it.”

Abandoned me. She doesn’t say it, but she doesn’t have to. It starts unfolding memories he deliberately let fade. Long nights, heavy work, frequent missions. Ana never shirked her responsibilities as second in command and did her best for her daughter. But her daughter inevitably fell through the cracks. They did what they could. Little Fareeha grew up raised by soldiers. When other teenagers went out on the town with others their age, she learned how to fight and shoot from some of the deadliest fighters on Earth. But more than once, he caught a pair of sad brown eyes peeking into his office.

“Let me save us both a lot of time. The guy you’re talking to doesn’t exist anymore. So unless you brought me something to drink, I ain’t interested.”

“You owe this to me.”

Jack’s mouth tightens. “I don’t owe you shit.”

“You owe my mother.”

He stares ahead for a long moment, then slowly brings the beer to his lips. It’s oddly flavored without a full compliment of tastebuds, but it’s pleasantly cool and crisp. Ana used to berate him for being too fond of a drink. Then she died and nobody said anything about it.

“Maybe,” he admits wearily, “but she isn’t here to collect.”

“You stubborn ass.” Pharah sounds equally angry and perplexed. “Why did you say nothing? The UN would never have gathered the nerve to disband Overwatch with you still alive.”

“You’re still dreaming of joining.”

She doesn’t say anything for a while. Something builds in the air between them. Then she says, “Is my mother truly dead?”

This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. He swirls his bottle and listens to its contents churn and trickle. It’s something he’s asked himself hundreds of times since that fateful mission. Their last words to each other had been tense and sterile. It’s not the sort of good-bye she deserved.

“We found blood, her broken rifle, and no body.” Jack hangs the bottle over his knee. “But if she were alive, she would’ve come back for you.”

“Perhaps.” 

That or Talon agents took her body. (After Widowmaker, he doesn’t put anything past them.) It’s a scenario he’s considered several times over the years and one of the last things he and Gabriel cooperated on. They tried to find out what happened to Ana, if she died or needed extraction, but they found nothing.

He takes another pull of beer. “I’ve got nothing else to say about it.”

“You should have told me.” Pharah’s voice has a downward pull in it. He imagines those same sad brown eyes peering at him now. “I may not have understood, but I would not have turned you away. Overwatch was my family.”

“I know.” 

She wants for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Eventually she opens the door and leaves, her tread heavier than before.

\---

(Six years earlier)

Jack’s about to pour his first scotch when someone knocks on the door. He stands up and all the bones in his legs creak like a dead tree. It’s nearly midnight. There’s only a few people it would be. One he hopes and dreads in equal measure. He looks through the peephole only to see it’s covered up. Classic control freak. He opens the door a crack and sees a thin slice of Gabriel’s profile.

“Gonna let me in?”

“Yeah.” Jack unlocks the chain and steps aside. “I didn’t think you’d show.”

“Me neither.”

Gabriel strides in like he owns the place. For once, he’s wearing something other than his black BDUs. A ratty old hoodie and olive fatigues are about as civilian as he gets these days. He takes one look at the table and its set up of two whiskey glasses and a single-malt scotch. One full, one empty. 

“Celebrating already?”

“Like I said.” Jack shuts the door. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

He pushes past Gabriel and sits down on the couch. He doesn’t otherwise acknowledge the other man. Simply unscrews the bottle of scotch and pours three fingers worth of it into the second glass. He can feel Gabriel studying him, taking his measure like he does before every meeting, but he doesn’t start arguing. He just sits down opposite of Jack and looks into his glass.

“This is the good stuff.”

“Only the best for the best.”

Gabriel’s eyes flick up to him, then back to the scotch. “Yeah.” He makes a show of swirling it around and smelling it. “You should’ve went back for her.”

“I know.”

“You left her there.”

“I know.”

They stare at each other. They’ve had many such staring contests before. He sighs and his shoulders slump.

“Can we bury the hatchet for one night? Just one night. For Ana.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow, but he lifts his glass up in salute. “For Ana.”

He drinks without waiting for Jack, but Jack doesn’t mind. He drains his own glass in one go and sets it back on the table. The scotch is smooth and warm going down. It glows in his belly and starts suffusing the rest of his body. He pours them each another round. They look at each other, then drink.

“Have you told Fareeha yet?” Gabriel leans his elbows on the table.

Jack shakes his head and downs another glass. Heat begins to expand into his chest and limbs. “Don’t know what to say to her. I wish we had a body. Something for her to bury. How the fuck’s that kid going to get closure from a broken rifle?”

“If you get hung up on that, then you don’t belong in command.”

It’s a cheap shot, but Jack’s been waiting for it. He slowly turns the glass with his fingers. Its surface veers left and right, fragrant and amber. It’s 40 years old and the only time he drinks it is when he loses a friend. But it’s either commiseration or celebration and he’s run out of things to celebrate.

“Guess you’re right.” Jack downs his scotch.

“Christ, Morrison. Slow down.” Gabriel takes a measured sip to illustrate. “Enhanced or not, you don’t gulp this stuff.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like Ana.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jack rubs his forehead, which has been growing bit by bit over the years. “I always thought it would be the three of us. Right up to the end.”

Gabriel’s gaze sharpens. “End of what?”

Jack just shrugs. “Anything.” He smiles, but it’s not a nice expression. “We always fought together. If one of us went, all of us went.”

“That’s a pretty little fantasy.”

His smile softens into something sadder and more sincere. “It is, isn’t it?”

Gabriel sighs and averts his eyes. “We should do this when someone isn’t dead.”

It’s something Jack’s waited years to hear. After all the scenarios of getting back together, making amends, sharing something other than hate sex, it’s this. Drinking to Ana at quarter to one in the morning. He can imagine her eye roll at their antics. She used to call them two melodramatic old men. It used to annoy him to no end, but he couldn’t deny it. When Gabriel was involved, the rest of the world just faded into the background.

“We should.” Jack clears his throat. “I’d like that.”

He pours another round. The last one, he tells himself. When he raises his glass, Gabriel’s expression is heavy. He chalks it up to grieving Ana.

The next morning, he realizes it’s not. But by then, it’s too late.


End file.
